In His Head
by WalkingWit
Summary: His green eyes took in the bleak walls. No, this wasn't St. Mungos.  The ginger man with the clipboard was not Ron, just like the girl with the book was not Hermione. Except, they were, just not really. What if Harry had been in an asylum for years?
1. Chapter 1

**This is just a little something I thought of one day during my re-read of the series.**

**In His Head**

_He had done it. He defeated Voldemort. He had saved the world, and all was well._

His eyes took in the bleak whitewashed walls, examining a crack. He dragged his finger across it absentmindedly, pleased by his recent vicory. Why he was there, he did not know. He assumed he was in St. Mungo's, being treated for wounds he had inevitably accumulated during the battle. Dying tended to do that to a person, eh? The iron bed with the aging mattress squeaked against his measly weight.

The door creaked open, revealing a man in a long white coat. He almost seemed to blend into the walls, save for his red hair and freckles. He held a clipboard, looking over some files, glancing at him.

He thought he looked like Ron. Maybe he was a Weasley, too. After all, it was a large family.

"Son, can you tell me your name?"

He was taken aback. He thought everyone knew his name. He was the Boy Who Lived. Assuming that the healer was merely checking to make sure he had no head injuries, he answered.

"Harry Potter," the green eyed lad answered.

"Birthday?"

"The 31st of July, 1980," he said tiredly. What was the use? They should be celebrating!

"Parents?"

"James and Lily Potter."

The healer made a note, scribbling something. He looked up at Harry with a pitying look.

"Year?" he asked.

"1998."

He made another scribble, shaking his head.

"Harry," he said tentatively, "where have you been the past few months?"

"I was supposed to be at Hogwarts, but me, Ron, and Hermione went to find the horcruxes. And we did. Voldemort is gone now, you know that right? There was a battle..."

"Yes, of course. Tell me more about it. I wasn't there," the healer seemed genuinely interested, sitting down on a rickety chair, face earnest.

Harry smiled a little, feeling proud of himself. He wasn't much for gloating, but he felt he deserved a bit of it, now. He had ended the war.

"Well, the battle was at Hogwarts. Most of the students were gone, but so many wizards came to help. Mrs Weasley killed Bellatrix. Serves her right, killing Sirius."

"And who is Sirius?"

"My godfather. He fell behind the veil at the Department of Mysteries when we tried to get the prophecy. Voldemort was in my mind, and tricked me," Harry answered the questions, thinking nothing of it, "Are Ron and Hermione here?"

"No," he replied. "Harry, where do you think you are?"

"St. Mungo's," he hesitated, looking around, "being treated for wounds from the battle."

The healer shook his head, standing up. He left the room, leaving Harry to his own devices.

He looked around the room, recognizing it. There was a small trunk with his belongings. A broom, and the snitch. Except it was green and fuzzy, must be an old snitch, that was it.

There was a mirror, and a few photographs. Of the Dursleys, but none of his friends. He found it odd. Had his aunt and uncle actually cared enough to find out how he was? Dudley's fat face stared back at him, angering Harry until he crossed the room, slamming the photograph on the table. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was skinnier than he remembered, attributing it to months on the run. His hair was nearing his shoulders, his eyes sunken in. He was paler than ever, his hands twitchy. On his hand the faint scar of 'I shall not tell lies' remained. Maybe the healers could get rid of it.

He picked up the broom, and tossed the snitch into the air. For some reason, it didn't fly, but merely fell back on the ground. He shrugged, mounting the broom. It wouldn't budge. It wasn't his Firebolt. He tossed it aside, feeling suddenly very claustrophobic.

Harry crawled back onto the bed, bringing his knees to his chest. He rocked back and forth, frightened. Where was he? No one seemed to understand him.

The door opened again, a blonde girl carrying a tray of porridge and a scone with some tea.

"Luna," Harry breathed, relieved.

Luna smiled at him, her blue, wide eyes pleasant, "You remembered me, today."

Today? Had he lost his memory? No one would tell him anything.

"Luna, where are we? Where are Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville?"

He took in her outfit, white, matching the healer's.

She smiled softly, her voice light as it ever was, "Think, Harry. You've been here since you were fifteen."

"St. Mungo's," he guessed.

He hadn't been there since he was fifteen. He'd been at Hogwarts, learning, with his friends and Dumbledore.

"But Hogwarts, and Dumbledore…" he looked incredibly lost. His green eyes were glazed over as he tried to put his life together.

Luna set the tray of food aside on the table and sat next to Harry, taking his hand.

"Think. Your uncle brought you here after you attacked your cousin," Luna explained, her face solemn.

"I never attacked Dudley!" Harry leapt from the bed.

Luna took his hand gently, soothing him. He sat back down, enraged.

"He was very seriously hurt. You kept going on about Dementors, and Sirius, and Hogwarts."

"My school…"

She shook her head, "There's no such thing. You had gone to Smeltings before coming here."

"But I'm a wizard!" he yelled. Luna was being so bloody stupid, "and you're a witch!"

Luna sighed, standing, "Enjoy your breakfast."

She left the room as soon as she had entered, leaving Harry alone once more.

There were Dementors. They had tried to kill Dudley, but he saved him. This was all one big mess. He needed to explain, to get people to understand him. He jumped off of the bed, digging through his trunk. There was no sign of spellbooks, nor his wand, no Hedwig, and no letters from his friends. No pictures of them. The picture of his parents he did have didn't move. It's as if they never existed.

He slumped onto the ground, his head hurting. His scar, his scar didn't burn. He stood shakily, padding toward the door. He opened it slightly, poking his head out.

A few healers walked past, sending him strange looks. They moved forward. Harry walked the halls, barefoot, hearing snippets of conversation. Not, it was not St. Mungo's at all. It wasn't even magical.

He reached a living room, he supposed. A few people were seated, reading. There was a boy in a wheelchair, praying without end. A girl was curled up on a chair, a large, thick book in her lap. Her frizzy brown hair stood on end.

"Hermione," he started. Except, it wasn't her. Just like the healer wasn't Ron.

He wandered back to his room as if in a daze. He heard the nurses…'poor boy, been here years.'

'His aunt and uncle abused him. Kept 'im in a cupboard, didn't feed 'im. Surprised he didn't land here sooner.'

'Nearly killed his cousin.'

'Goes on about bein' a wizard, the loon.'

'Ye'd be crazy, too if ye were neglected yer entire life. No mum or dad, no friends to speak of…poor kid'

'But a wizard? Really?'

'It's all in his head.'

He reached his room, slamming the door. All in his head. It was all in his head. He looked at the tennis ball, picking it up.

It wasn't a tennis ball, it was the snitch. A small smile crossed his features. Now that Voldemort was gone, he and Ron could play. He tossed the ball in the air, catching it. He repeated the motions, grinning eerily. He could wait for his friends. It would only be a matter of time.

The shadow of the smile remained. He threw the ball in the air, catching it. He threw it again, over and over. The small green ball arched threw the air, right back into his thin hands. Over and over.

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><p><strong>The End! I fully intend this as a oneshot. Really, what if Hogwarts was all just in Harry's head? He'd been through a hellish childhood as it were.<strong>

**Please Review, I like feedback.**


	2. In Print

**This is just a little something I thought of one day during my re-read of the series.**

**Note: Thanks to AmyRose, I've decided to continue this. Same institution, different character. And are you a Doctor Who fan? Or am I just silly for thinking of Amy Pond and Rose Tyler right off the bat?**

**In Print**

The frizzy haired girl looked up from her book, eyes glassy and tired. She looked around her, forgetting for a moment that she was not, in fact, Jane Eyre. She was just Hermione Granger, the daughter her parents were ashamed of. The girl who liked to pretend she was one of the heroines from her books. It had started with Elizabeth Bennet, then she had moved onto to fancying herself as Catherine (which only led to disaster), and now Jane. She could identify with Jane-plain, but smart. Longing for an older man.

Her eyes glanced around the recreation room. Poor Neville was still praying, wishing for his parents. Two girls were in the midst of a card game, while a boy with bright green eyes, Harry, she recalled, was staring at her, blankly. She offered a smile, though it must have seemed mangled. He turned away from her and she shrugged. She was only trying to be nice.

The young doctor swept into the room, smiling softly. His red hair was mussed up, as he had a tendency to run his hand through it when nervous. She stared at him unblinkingly. So much so, that her eyes watered. He was perfect, kind, humourous. And he thought she was insane.

Her eyes narrowed as she saw the nurse, Luna, hand him some papers. The doctor looked at Luna adoringly (or, more correctly, Hermione saw it as adoringly), and Hermione felt sick. She clutched her stomach, wishing she were imagining things. That the young doctor and the beautiful nurse weren't together.

Then she remembered that Luna herself was strange. But because she was beautiful it's seen as a quirk, and part of her personality. Whereas with her, she's seen as some sort of monster.

Luna touches his shoulder and walks away, leaving the doctor to mill about the room, watching the young adults and teenagers.

He moves closer to her, and she thinks that she's just about to stop breathing altogether.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," he says gently, sitting next her.

His blue eyes were kind and soft, his countenance relaxed.

"Doctor Weasley," she said quietly.

He wasn't a Heathcliff or a Rochester. Maybe that was for the better. Her Heathcliff was truly mad, and she had joined him on his bender, downward spiraling into hallucinogens and alcohol. She bit her lip, remembering his untimely death, trying to fly by jumping off a bridge. That's when she truly went mad, and turned to witchcraft in an attempt to bring him back. She had convinced herself that there was a school, a wondrous magical school that could help her. Part of her blamed watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but she knew it was all her.

She had been a good student, poised to attend either Oxford of Cambridge. She was polite, quiet, and obeyed her parents. She had no life outside of her texts, and thus was her downfall. The moment she met Heathcliff in the novel, she also met him in real life. He wore a leather jacket, smoked, and was impossibly handsome. Her over-due rebellious streak began, leading her to get kicked out of school after burning the auditorium. Finally, her parents threw her in an asylum, wanting their old Hermione back.

The old Hermione died the second that her Heathcliff flung himself off of the bridge and into the Thames. She began to write, about him, about the magical school. She created teachers, friends...she'd never had friends. She locked herself in her room, writing what she wanted her life to be. Where Doctor Weasely was her age and just Ron.

"How are you today?" he asked, undoubtedly taking notes on her behaviour.

"Better," she squeaked, hiding behind her hair.

He looked at the book, Jane Eyre. He fought the urge to snatch the book and burn it. The girl had to stop living in her books and stories and go out into the real world. Sure, she tried it once, but her boyfriend ended up dead. He brushed it off as the tragedy of life. Hermione needed to try to integrate into the world again. She was by far the least barmy of the bunch. Just not able to socialize very well.

"Hermione," he used her first name, making her tense a bit.

"Yes?" she mumbled.

"How would like to take a trip into London with me?" he asked hopefully.

She looked up at him, eyes wide with terror. Ron recoiled slightly. Perhaps he'd been mistaken.

"You don't have to," he clarified, "I just think that you may be ready."

The seventeen year-old inclined her head, fingers playing with the edge of her book. To go back out into London. To see where they had been together, where she used to go to school.

He thought she was ready. He had faith in her.

"When?" she finally replied.

A smile split Ron's face. Hermione smiled shyly, and he thought that she should smile more often.

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><p><strong>Please Review, I like feedback.<strong>


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